Now in progress.
Listen here, your hard worn fugues and death rattles don't jibe over here, you get me kid? We been watchin this street for too long and we saw you come in, silhouetted against the lunatic sky, one short one long. That broke ass walk translated your epic adventures into tragicomedy suitable for must see tee vee and we knew your game before you did because we wrote the mother fucker. We been waitin for you to fuck up and fuck up you did, and here we are on you like stink on shit because we got somethin to tell you. You got to go, got to go.
--
Winter's dragging on like a great series with burnt out writers. Squeezing out one more season based on one great line for every half hour's worth of dialogue, minus commercial breaks and establishing shots. It's too cold, it's too old. Let the temperature rise. Let the audience go home.
I heard a little kid on 42nd (don't ask) right in front of me tell his mom that his hands were so cold they were going to shatter if he knocked 'em on the wall. He couldn't have been more than three. I thought that was such a complete and well illustrated concept for such a little guy that I spent the next half hour following him and his mother until I got the hairy eyeball and beat it back to my own dotted line. I shouldn't underestimate kids so much, but they get the brunt of my dissatisfaction with the meat sacks they become. Any kid can tell you more that you can use than most adults can, but the expiration date for that kind of straight up hypercommunication seems to be getting earlier and earlier. Or maybe it's just how it looks from my perspective over the hill.
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My personal mythology is that your oversized mouth and your obscene hands are more like conceptual art than pure science. You probably don't think that way, but as long as I think that way for you, it'll get me through. I keep leaving you little tributes that you walk through like unseen spider webs with only that annoyed brush of the hand to betray that you even registered it at all. Maybe I should aim lower.
--
Winter's dragging on like a great series with burnt out writers. Squeezing out one more season based on one great line for every half hour's worth of dialogue, minus commercial breaks and establishing shots. It's too cold, it's too old. Let the temperature rise. Let the audience go home.
I heard a little kid on 42nd (don't ask) right in front of me tell his mom that his hands were so cold they were going to shatter if he knocked 'em on the wall. He couldn't have been more than three. I thought that was such a complete and well illustrated concept for such a little guy that I spent the next half hour following him and his mother until I got the hairy eyeball and beat it back to my own dotted line. I shouldn't underestimate kids so much, but they get the brunt of my dissatisfaction with the meat sacks they become. Any kid can tell you more that you can use than most adults can, but the expiration date for that kind of straight up hypercommunication seems to be getting earlier and earlier. Or maybe it's just how it looks from my perspective over the hill.
--
My personal mythology is that your oversized mouth and your obscene hands are more like conceptual art than pure science. You probably don't think that way, but as long as I think that way for you, it'll get me through. I keep leaving you little tributes that you walk through like unseen spider webs with only that annoyed brush of the hand to betray that you even registered it at all. Maybe I should aim lower.